


"I am my prayer to you"

by Findswoman



Series: The Lasan Series [5]
Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, F/M, Lasan, Lasat, Pilgrimage, Prayer, Religion, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 05:49:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17136161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findswoman/pseuds/Findswoman
Summary: Zeb accompanies Shulma on a pilgrimage to her favorite holy site and offers a prayer of his own. Another postscript to The Sad, Sad Story of Porfozald Marballees!, taking place about two years (dust seasons) after that story (i.e., about 23–22 BBY), again in an attempt to make things up to Shulma.





	"I am my prayer to you"

The evening was chill as Zeb paced in the courtyard outside the tomb-shrine of Osthi the Storm-Dreamer, nestled in the northern mountain hamlet of Feldspar Falls. He felt bare, vulnerable, and a bit cold in his uniform vest and breeches without the customary armor. The caretaker of the men’s pilgrimage house, a gaunt, bespectacled Lasat shaman with sparse white sideburns, had brought him here a few minutes ago, and had instructed him beforehand to leave his armor, his bo-rifle, and his utility knife behind before approaching the tomb.  
  
At least Shulma would be joining him soon. Zeb was on leave from his first tour of duty with the Honor Guard, and she had prevailed upon him to spend a few days of that leave to join her on a brief pilgrimage to Osthi’s tomb. Now that Shulma had been promoted from an initiate to the second shamanic degree, she was authorized to go on pilgrimages of her own, as long as they did not interfere with her continuing studies. And of course—Zeb chuckled to himself as he remembered—she (and her fellow shamans) had carefully reassured her parents and brothers that there were caretakers and other pilgrims around and that nothing untoward would happen between her and the young soldier she loved.  
  
Zeb had never been to a holy site like this before. He had been inside the Royal Academy of Shamans on Mount Straga a few times, but only to the wing with the study chambers—never to the inner shrines where the rituals were performed—and most of the time when he came to walk Shulma home, he simply met her at the funicular station at the mountain’s base. A few times Shulma had tried to explain to him the arcane writings and ancient prophecies she was studying, and he had found it all more confusing than anything else. But he knew that this Osthi, whoever else she had been, was a by way of a role model to his love, and that Shulma had long wanted to return to this holy site. Zeb remembered what she had told him about her first visit to the prophetess’s tomb, how what should have been a tranquil, uplifting retreat experience had been all but ruined by the objectionable advances of that Porfozald Marballees character. That sleemo, harassing her that way! Even now the very thought made Zeb gnash his teeth and snarl. But he had taken care of matters, oh yes he had…!  
  
And now that she was here again, this time with him by her side—he resolved, on his honor as a Guardsman, that  _this_  would be the beautiful pilgrimage his beloved so richly deserved.  
  
“Hello, Zeblove.”  
  
Zeb turned to see Shulma’s scarlet-cloaked form come rustling up beside him. The moonlight glinted in her stone-green eyes, on the shamanic ring-medallion in her hair, and on her hair itself—that glorious, flowing, purple-black hair.  _Karabast, she was lovely..._  
  
“Hey there, darlin’.” He took her hand and kissed it.  
  
“So, this is the place.” She gestured around with one hand. “What do you think so far? First impressions?”  
  
“Well, erm... it’s...” Zeb glanced around at the low, squat, tile-roofed buildings surrounding the central courtyard: the men’s pilgrimage house, the refectory, the women’s pilgrimage house, the library—then at the shrine before them, with its high arched roof and the colored-glass window set into its front like a gem—and beyond it at the tranquil darkness of the lake. All very pretty, but he knew what  _he_ thought was the most beautiful thing there....  
  
“It’s... er... very nice,” he said at last.  
  
“Has Shaman Vossplath been treating you well?”  
  
“You mean the ol’ white-bearded fellow back in the men’s house?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Zeb shrugged. “Seems all right. Always squintin’ at me funny, though.”  
  
“Oh, he squints at everyone.”  
  
“While I’m at the washstand trimmin’ my beard?!”  
  
“You’re probably the first Guardsman he’s seen here in a while. His wife is on duty in the women’s house and has been doing nothing but asking me questions about you.”  
  
“Aw, great,” Zeb rejoined with a sigh and a roll of his eyes.  
  
“All good things, I promise.” Shulma stroked his upper arm. “Even so, I get the feeling that it is not common for members of the Lasan High Honor Guard to make pilgrimages to tombs of ancient female mystics.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s right, I guess. Not unless we’re dragged here by our own female mystics,” he chuckled, edging closer and tracing one of her cheek-stripes.  
  
“You raised no objection.” She smiled and ruffled one of his sideburns. “So, shall we, my love?”  
  
“Yeah, sure.”  
  
She looped her arm through his, and they walked together into the shrine.  
  


* * *

  
“And here we are,” Shulma smiled.  
  
Zeb glanced around, taking in the stark beauty of the tomb chamber: the flat stone walls, the flickering glow of the lightning torches in the corners of the room, the recumbent sculpture of the prophetess with the Ashla’s blade piercing her heart, and the bursts of jewel-like color from the four windows, one set into each wall. The windows intrigued him. On three of them, the ones with the blue, green, and yellow backgrounds, he could discern the images of the Warrior, the Child, and the Fool—familiar, storied figures known to every Lasat kit. But he wasn’t sure about the fourth window, the red one at the far end of the room, which showed a female shaman gesturing to a book that she held open before her. Was it a portrait of Osthi herself? Whoever it was seemed to be staring straight at him, straight through him. He became aware of how nervous he was and how out of place he felt.  
  
“Right, er, so I guess I’ll just stay here while you, er, pray or whatever you’re gonna do,” he managed at last, shuffling his feet in the entrance alcove.  
  
“Oh, no! You don’t have to do that!” Shulma tugged his hand pleadingly. “Won’t you come? Please?”  
  
“Aw kara—”  
  
“Please, not here, Zeblove!”  
  
“Sorry, sorry… but darlin’, I just…” He trailed off with a sigh.  
  
“Just what?”  
  
“I—I don’t know what I’m supposed to  _do_ … I’m just a simple Lasat... I don’t know any, er, prayers or chants or any o’ that sorta thing.”  
  
“It’s all right, love. You don’t need to. Your very presence is a prayer.” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Just stay beside me. I know you can do that, can’t you?”  
  
“Aw, when you put it like that…” He squeezed her hand back, and let her lead him toward the center of the room. There, she took a piece of chalk from her pocket and began to draw a semicircular pattern of glyphs on the floor: a chain of flamelike or petallike shapes that began and ended on the same side of the sarcophagus. She stepped inside it and motioned to Zeb to do the same.  
  
“Right, so, er, now what?” he asked.  
  
“I told you, love. Just be here.”  
  
“If you say so.” Zeb watched as Shulma approached the statue and placed her hands on one of its hands—the one encircling the piercing blade. She closed her eyes and began to breathe rhythmically, shallowly at first but then more and more deeply. Then, with one very deep, sighlike breath, she sank to her knees and rested her head on her forearm over the statue’s breast. Zeb immediately knelt beside her and placed his arm around her—  
  
—and just as he did, she began to chant softly, arcane words in an ethereal undertone. Zeb started at first, but then smiled. He pressed her closer and interlaced his foot with hers.  
  
For several minutes they stayed there together: Shulma leaning on the prophetess’s tomb, immersed in her chanted prayer; Zeb beside her, holding her and marveling at her and not knowing what to do. He could not enter the trance she had entered, for the Ashla did not fill him the way it filled her. He could not join in her chant; it was beyond his knowledge. So what  _could_ he do? What could he say? Anything?  
  
Well, she had asked him to stay beside her, and he was doing that. And even if he didn’t know any of those fancy, shamanic prayers… still, maybe he could manage  _somethin’._ ’Course, who knew if it would do any good—but it couldn’t hurt to try, right…?  
  
He closed his eyes and thought very hard.  
  
 _Er… um… hello, Ashla, if you’re there… Junior Lieutenant Garazeb Orrelios here, Third Honor Guard Division, Eighth Squadron… I guess, erm… well… see this absolutely amazing woman I’m holdin’? Yeah, well… thank you. For her. She just makes me so happy, and… and y’know, if you could please watch over her, keep her safe, that sort of thing. And don’t let any harm come to her, because if it does I’ll—_  
  
At that moment Zeb heard a rumble like distant thunder; he thought he felt the ground shake, too. Shulma shuddered against him but kept chanting. He clutched her tighter.  
  
 _…er, sorry, Ashla, sorry. What I mean is… just, well, watch over her and… bless her, or whatever it is you do. Because I… I just love her so much… and I hope—I really, really hope someday she can be my bride… aw yeah, how awesome would that be… so yeah, er, thanks again, Ashla. Orrelios out._  
  
Zeb paused, listened. All was calm again. The only sound was Shulma’s sweet voice, still chanting, as she nestled closer to him. He leaned over, gently nuzzling her, and planted a kiss in her hair.  
  
And they stayed there, as the torches flickered, the light from the windows faded, and the shadows lengthened.  
  


* * *

  
Later, the stars gleamed down on them as they lingered together in the courtyard, hands clasped, green eyes fixed on green eyes.  
  
“Thanks for coming here with me, Zeblove,” Shulma said at last.  
  
“Aw, heh heh…” Zeb kissed her hand. “Anythin’ for you, darlin’.”  
  
“It means so much to me. Especially since the first time…”  
  
“I know, darlin’, I know. Least I could do for ya.” Zeb slid his arms around her and pressed her close. She nestled into his embrace.  
  
“Oh, and Zeblove…”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Her next words were almost whispered. “May the Ashla grant your prayer.”  
  
“Whoa, now,  _what?!_ ” Zeb jumped, almost letting go of Shulma. “ _Prayer?!_  I mean—how’d you know I—I didn’t  _say_  anything—did I? Aw ka—I mean—how couldja possibly—”  
  
“Don’t worry, dearest. I know. Because you  _are_  your prayer.” She edged closer. Zeb caught her sweet scent as her cheek brushed his beard. “And you are  _my_ prayer.”  
  
“There you go talkin’ your mystic talk again…” His voice was husky as he drew her in. “Can’t we just  _kiss_  or somethin’?”  
  
“A fine idea.”  
  
Their lips joined in the starlit courtyard, in the shadow of Osthi’s tomb. Then Zeb walked back to the men’s pilgrimage house and Shulma to the women’s pilgrimage house, and all was quiet and dark once more. ¶

**Author's Note:**

> “I am my prayer to you”: The title is taken from a phrase in the Jewish liturgy: “Ve-ani tefilati lekha Adonai eit ratzon,” which is often rendered in prayerbooks as something along the lines of “and I have prayed to you, Lord, at this time of grace,” or “may my prayer to you, Lord, be at an acceptable time,” but which can be interpreted literally as “and I am my prayer to you, Lord, at an acceptable time.”
> 
> Osthi of Feldspar Falls and her tomb are fanon and are first introduced in my story The Sad, Sad Story of Porfozald Marballees!
> 
> The Warrior, the Child and the Fool are the three figures in the Prophecy of the Three, introduced in the Rebels episode “Legends of the Lasat.”
> 
> Zeb’s rank, division, and squadron are all fanon; this is, of course, a while before he becomes captain of the Honor Guard.


End file.
